Black and Blue
by Hungarian With a Frying Pan
Summary: A band can always tell how long the season will be by how hot it is on the first day of bandcamp. The group could tell right away that it would be a long ass season. The question was: would they all survive it? Marching band AU. Cowritten.
1. Chapter 1

You can always tell how long the season will be by how hot it is on the first day of band camp. Apparently, this would be a miserable one, as it felt like a million degrees outside and it was barely 8 a.m. The seniors were sitting in some sort of cult circle, the freshmen looking intimidated, and the sophomores and juniors were moaning and groaning and hitting each other on the head with their instruments. Ah yes, this was going to be a long-ass season.

Off to the side, several students were absolutely covering themselves in sunscreen. This group of vampires included Gil, the muscular, red-eyed senior; Ivan, who was not going to relive last year's tuba tan; Vash and Lilli, a brother and sister who played flute; and Arthur, who was trying to use his clarinet to smack away his boyfriend who was trying to cover him in the sunscreen. Only ten minutes in and the swearing had already begun. Classic band camp.

The scene was business as usual, the usuals were there on time, the freshmen were all shaky and nervous, and people were crying over the loss of last year's seniors. All of the band kids were gathered where they belonged, except for the fact that some dumbass showchoir kid was out on the field.

They knew that they would be having a keyboard in the pit this year, but of all the people in the world why did it have to be Roderich "superiority complex" Edelstein? And no that statement isn't hypocritical at all. No person believed in the superiority complex of the band way more than snare drummer and pale white boy Gilbert Beilschmidt, who absolutely could not stand Roderich. He also loved to give Roderich hell, just because it was fun to make him flush. He slung an arm around his shoulders and smirked. "Are you sure your prissy ass can survive in this heat and sun?"

"Piss off Beilschmidt," he pulled the arm off of him and glared. "Can't you go be a delinquent with your friends and stop bugging me?"

He opened his mouth to retort but got called over by the hottest majorette in the band-his buddy Francis. "Gil! Come here and help me cover Sourcils here in vampire cream!" A statement which was followed by both Gil and Arthur a "shut up!"

He wandered over to his friend and took off his drum harness. "You know if you two just wanted to have a threesome with me you should have just asked," the little bastard smirked, and while Francis winked back at him, Arthur was sputtering on about how ridiculous he was. Arthur then proceeded to get a fairly muscular arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"Artie, dude I know you never leave the house but you can't have heatstroke already." Alfred grinned, towering over Arthur with a trumpet in his grip, lazily slinging it around.

Arthur smacked him upside the head and smirked. "You need to take better care of your instrument. If you're supposed to treat it like a baby I fear for your future children."

"Pft. Whatever. I'm gonna be an awesome dad. Much better than you and Mr Sparkles."

That got two responses: "you're just jealous" and "who the hell said we're going to have children?" Uh oh. Trouble in paradise. They banter out for a minute and everyone else continues to converse until that all-too familiar pattern of clapping, and everyone who has marched before snaps into attention. Now that everyone is frozen, the freshmen are looking terrified and realizing that they've joined a cult.

Now it's time for sunshine and rainbows as Katya, the drum major is literally the nicest person in the world. She makes 8:30 am seem like a decent hour. "Good morning everyone! I'm so glad to see old and new faces! I want you to spend the next ten minutes learning the names of everyone in your sections, okay?"

There was a bit of mumbling before the groups split up. While some sections, like the flutes and clarinets were taking it seriously, in about a minute the trumpets and drums had started a war throwing crumpled paper balls at each other. That calamity went on for a minute before the trumpets sent in a freshman waving a white flag of surrender. After a while Katya had to step in and give them a talk on being nice before returning to her podium.

Ah yes. It truly was going to be a long-ass season. The question was: would the band director survive it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone for the positivity on the first chapter. We appreciate it.**

The answer, if anyone knew Mr. Vargas, was absolutely not. The man couldn't even handle his own two children, let alone a whole marching band.

But he sure as hell was going to try.

And it seemed, on the first day, that he was going to fail. His coffee had spilt, the copy machine jammed, and as soon as he walked onto the field he caught sight of one of his sons kissing a senior.

A senior. And a particularly rowdy one at that.

Now, don't get him wrong. Mr. Vargas was a Catholic man, but not a bigoted one. It's just Lovi, his innocent Lovi, was tongue fucking the band's regular Casanova, Antonio.

Or Antonio was tongue fucking him. He didn't like to think of the logistics.

He looked around. Katya, as motherly as ever, was giving the freshmen and newbies orientation and the rest of the band was talking in clumps. No one was watching the back of the field except him.

Snaking around the back, he approached the couple and cleared his throat.

"Lovi," he raised his voice. "Antonio. Why are you dry humping on my field?"

Antonio pulled away and smiled, wiping his lips. "Hello, Mr. Vargas."

Lovi, however, wasn't so collected. "I-" Each second his father stared at him made him redder and redder.

"See me in my office," Mr. Vargas tried to keep his voice even. "Just Lovi," he added when Antonio stood up alongside him. "Go warm up, Antonio."

"Alright, Mr. Vargas." The poor Spanish boy didn't realize the shit he was in.

Lovi did, however, and the pit in his stomach grew deeper with every stride across the field. He felt like he could vomit, and the heat amplified that.

The cool air conditioning hit Lovino's neck as he entered the band room and followed his father into his office.

Mr. Vargas sat down. "You know how I feel about you and Feli dating at this age," he swallowed. "And doing _that._ "

Loving reddened. "I'm sixteen, I'm sure I can handle a boyfriend," he said and tried to keep his voice low.

"And I'm sure you can't. Lovi, schoolwork, band work, it all adds up," he tried to sound convincing. "I don't trust Antonio with you, either."

"He's just fine!" Lovi snapped at his father.

"He is not," Mr. Vargas's voice started booming. "You aren't mature enough and that's that."

"You're just mad because mom left you," Lovino yelled and instantly regretted it. Mr. Vargas instantly grew somber.

"Get back on the field. If I see you with Antonio again, you can say goodbye to band for the rest of the season.


End file.
